


Promise

by In_Cogito



Category: Original Work
Genre: Allusions to abuse, Caretaking, Contracts, Demons, Gen, Human caretaker, Language Barrier, Non-human whumpee, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27778633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_Cogito/pseuds/In_Cogito
Summary: Humans mean well.  Usually.  And most humans in the modern age agree that owning another person is disreputable at best and inhuman and needlessly cruel at worst.A soul for one's freedom seemed like a fair trade off at the time.  It did prove difficult, certainly.  But if you choose to be kind because of how it makes you feel, you sorely miss the point.Content Warning:  References to abuse and depictions of violence.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	Promise

**Author's Note:**

> Oh wow. Something original. And whump, at that. 
> 
> I think this has to be the first time I've really posted an original work on the internet, for all the years I've been writing fanfic. I kind of always thought that there was fanfiction and then there was literature. Just, no in between. And this is kind of my first real step since my high school English classes to try and transition from one to the other. 
> 
> It's going to be pretty heavy on the caretaking side, fair warning. Having an outright bad guy is a bit new to me. I'm also still figuring out just what I like about whump, but the main thing I like about it is that you get to approach story structure in a different way from the usual protagonist/antagonist kind of struggle. 
> 
> Anyways, do proceed!

“No, no. Sh-Shuddup. I’m bein’ serious. I know a guy. Ok?”

Rachel stopped mid sip to cock an eyebrow at her coworker. Yeah. Of course. This was Keith. Of course he “knew a guy.” 

“Don’t! Don’t look at me like that!” He smacked a hand onto the table, jostling the empty glasses that had collected around the standing menu for drink specials but doing no damage outside of that. “I-I mean it. I know a guy. And you know what?” The beleaguered salesman shook a finger at her, the same hand still holding onto his third cinnamon toast cocktail of the night. “I want you to . . . You’re my friend. And I want to see you succeed.” 

“Keith, it’s fine.” 

“Because we’re going to die one day-”

“You’re drunk. Chill out.” 

That got him to listen, it seemed. The man pulled his posture back up off the table and set his drink down, but hands still curled around the glass. His frameless glasses sat crooked on the bridge of his nose. A shock of black hair hung out of place, tips curling into his eyes. Alcohol flush crept across his slightly rounded cheeks. In spite of everything, he was thoughtful. That fact hadn’t changed since they were college graduates, still stumbling from job to job and trying to find their footing in the real world. 

“I appreciate it. Your heart’s in the right place.” Keith wasn’t the type to take things personally. You really couldn’t be if you worked in sales. Rachel still had the decency to let him down easy. “But I’m alright where I am. I promise.” 

“You’re not mad?”

Rachel thought for a moment. “Not with Rimza.” And not with the branch manager or even herself. In the face of helplessness, anger was inevitable. But it was no one’s fault, really. The best thing she could do was let it pass. “I’m happy for her. She’s a good fit for the position. And upward mobility isn’t something I’m entitled to. Or that anyone is entitled to.” 

“You sure? I mean . . .” Keith grimaced. “It’s Rimza.”

“I know. And she earned it. The rest is none of my business.” 

Rachel brought her modelo to her lips. Thursday night. The week was just a little too long this time around and she took a friend along to unwind. A few others had the same idea. She could tell with a quick once over around the sports bar they picked to visit. The aroma of cigarette smoke wafted above. Men and women seated around the bar watched the mounted flat screen with lax intrigue as players ran and collided into each other on the football field. A mixed music radio station sent a steady wave of pop tunes over the sound system. Rachel and Keith had already been sitting there for some time. A basket of fried cheese curds sat half full on the table. Their waitress came by a few times and their tab was still left open. Conversation with a good friend can have that effect. 

“Still, still.” Keith wasn’t going to let the point drop. “I know a guy.” 

“Ok, fine. Tell me about your guy.” 

“Ok, so- He’s like, uh . . . I knew him in high school, actually. Like, C++ and Ruby. He did that. He was the kind of person who learned that shit for fun. And, uh . . .” Keith started down into his glass. Then he looked back up to Rachel. “I need to pee.”

Rachel snorted. “Then go do it. You don’t need my permission.” 

“With the-”

“Don’t miss the toilet.” 

Keith laughed and swatted a hand at her. Soon enough he was stumbling his way to the bathrooms in the back. Rachel took a sip from her beer. Keith was nice. It took a lot of energy to be around him, but these evenings always left her feeling content and satisfied. A reprieve to enjoy the ambience and the buzz was exactly what she could use right then and there.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

Rachel looked up into . . .

Red eyes. 

Not glowing red eyes. Just red eyes. Long lashes, pupils sitting neatly in the middle of cranberry colored irises as if it were a completely normal thing. And the visitor. He wore them well, wore them better than his slacks and white button up, the collar open enough for anyone who would need to breathe on a night full of so many people. He pointed to the empty booth across from the woman and her modelo. “Is this seat taken?”

“. . . Yes.” Rachel watched him carefully. “Literally, yes.”

“Fair enough. I can respect that. The edge, then?” He stuck a hand in his pocket and leaned against the height of the booth seat. “I think I kind of dig this. You can see every corner and cranny of this place. The owner’s come a long way, don’t you agree?” 

He was a businessman. A working man, at the very least. The clean facon cut of dark brown hair was enough to prove that. And the beard. Equally trimmed and dapper. Still, something about him gave the woman a bad feeling. “Look, you’re nice and all. But I came here with a friend and he’ll be back soon. The men’s room never seems to have a line.”

“Oh, I know. And I’m not worried about him. You and me. Let’s talk. I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. And, well, I couldn't help myself in . . . wanting to help. Not very eloquent of me, but it’s the truth.” 

Did he? Surely Rachel would have noticed a man with red eyes as soon as they walked in here, yet he was only just now showing his face. And . . . did he? She had been helped by bystanders in the past, but they didn’t give off the same energy this guy did. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Oh, that’s no fun. Aren’t you at least a little bit interested in what I can offer?” He smiled down at her. “I learned my worth early on. Wouldn’t be coming up to you like this if I had nothing to give.” 

Rachel didn’t reply. The visitor looked out into the bar and waved a staff member over. A woman wearing a black apron and a pen in her hair came up seconds later. “A snakebite and black, please.” His voice was smoother than butter. “Tell your manager that Bach stopped by for a drink. And don’t worry about the rest. He and I go way back.” The waitress finished her note and left for her next table. He noticed the quizzical expression Rachel must have had. “Some call me Bachanan.” The red-eyed gentleman slid into the empty bench and made himself comfortable. “The older crowds know me as ‘Bach of the Crucible.’ But I like to think that I offer more than a mere name.” 

Rachel narrowed her eyes warily. 

“For example,” he began. “I heard that your friend knew a guy. Tell me, what kinds of people does he ‘know’?” 

“Hard to say.” Rachel kept her cool. “You can’t be sure. It takes a long time to really know someone.”

“That’s pretty funny coming from a saleswoman.” 

She continued to scrutinize her surprise visitor. 

“I sympathize, you know.” Bach plucked a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his hands down. “You spend hours on your feet, going from person to person, selling them on not just a product but on a brand, on an idea. Selling them on you. You’re expected to build an entire relationship in mere minutes just to send someone on their way with a few less dollars in their pocket and a smile on their face. They tell you that you’re ‘trying to make a friend’ but we all know it's not that simple. If only.”

“And how do you know?”

“I’m a branch manager of sorts.” The waitress returned with Bach’s order. A bed of foam threatened to spill over the lip of a pint glass. Condensation ran down in beads against a backdrop of wheat-colored liquid. “Thank you, Honey.” 

“Branch manager of what business?”

“I’ll get to that.” He took a long drink and let out a satisfied hum. “You said yourself that it takes a while to truly know someone. Therefore, I don’t think you’ll mind if I take my sweet time in dishing out the details. Good thing, too. That’s a damn good lager in there.” He took another drink but cut it short. “In fact, I think you’re quite lucky.” He wiped a thumb along the corner of his mouth. “I don’t find myself working the floor much these days. That’s what my girls do. And let me tell you, they really are something special. Each and every one of them.” 

“So . . . You’re in sales? And your ‘girls’ are, too?”

“Like I said, I’m a branch manager. I think it’s only fair to be proud of my sales force. I put in just as much time and effort into them as they put in their work. Maybe more.” 

“What company do you work for?”

“Mm. It’s not local. You wouldn’t know it.” 

“How about a name? Maybe I’ve networked with them before.”

“Oh, no. You don’t come to them. They come to you. That’s part of the beauty of it.”

“Listen. Bachanan.”

“Oh, just ‘Bach’ is fine. Don’t be a stranger, Miss.” 

Rachel fought the urge to flare her eyes. She knew these types. Rimza was one of these types, one of the ones who would go out to “make a friend.” Emphasis on “make.” As in take control, force, toss an arm around the client like they were the best of pals and drag them away into another corner of the store. Another thing they teach you in sales is not to take the first no for an answer. The second one, yes. Or maybe. 

“Come on, talk to me. If you have a question, out with it. I’d love to hear it.” 

Dead air. Silence. That’s the one thing you want to avoid in sales. And that was when it clicked. Rachel was being subject to a sales pitch. But this man wasn’t just a salesman. He was a predator. And she didn’t need red eyes to be able to tell that. 

“. . . Bach.” Rachel reached for her purse sitting beside her. The mace on her keychain might prove necessary. “You don’t need to sell me on anything. I already know you’re looking to get something out of this. So what do you want to gain by talking to me?”

“What do I want to gain?” Bach put a hand on his chest and half-assed his look of hurt. “Isn’t that looking at things a bit cynically? What if this is what it looks like when opportunity knocks?” 

“Yeah, that’s why we have peepholes.”

He chuckled. And somehow Rachel responded as if an animal were growling at her. “I like you. Here. Take this.” 

Bach took one of her hands in each of her own. She flinched. Claws seemed to lightly draw up the length of her fingers. There was something uncomfortably intimate about it. His hands left. Cold metal rested in the palm of her hand. She uncurled her fingers and looked. It must have been a charm of some kind. Or a keychain. Red rope coiled in circles. Patterns coiled in the silver. Rachel was reminded of a service bell and for some reason, that sent a particular sick feeling sloshing around her insides. “What? A trinket? Do you have some monk friend selling bracelets for twenty dollars?”

“Oh, no. That’s free. Because that talisman is not what we sell.”

“Then what do you sell?”

“A service.” 

. . . What?

“. . . Ok? Just ‘a service.’ Do I have that right?” 

“Well, we have favorites among our clients. Trends, preferences, that stuff. But pick any two of my girls and you’ll find that no two portfolios are the same.” He pointed to the bell. “Hang that on your front door. When night comes, you’ll hear someone knock three times. And that’s when the magic happens.” 

Rachel put her bottle down. She couldn’t stomach another mouthful. “Look, I don’t know what you’re after here but I’m not the type of person who buys sex.”

“I never said you were.”

“Then what-”

“Contracts,” he said. “Contracts. Granted, sex isn’t off the table. But they have so much more to offer than any common whore could.” Bach sipped from his glass. “I would know. I trained them myself.” 

Rachel felt dread unfurl deep in her chest and gut. She didn’t want to know what they were trained in. “You need to leave.”

“Do I?”

“You’ve overstayed your welcome.” 

“And yet I’m still here.” He drank again from his glass. “I’m on earth. Therefore, I play by earth’s rules. When in Rome, you know? I’m stuck in a soft, squishy meat suit just like you. Therefore, you could kick me out and drag me to the curb whenever you so desired. Maybe get creative. Scream loud enough and get some of these folks to do it for you.” Bach circled his finger in the air, referring to the men seated along the bar and the staff still bustling about. “You could’ve put that mace to good use, too. And yet, you didn’t.” 

She didn’t. And it was her fault that she was still stuck with someone she didn’t want to be around. That was the message he was trying to send. Hell, maybe he would imply something about the way she was dressed if he could. 

“Give it a try,” he said. “At the very least, you could have a fun night ahead of you.”

That was the line Bach left the conversation on. He slid out of the booth, turned his back on Rachel and sauntered away. Rachel went for her beer and took a mouthful. And another. It wasn’t long until her bottle was empty, but it didn’t help much. He had a point. Why didn’t she try harder to fight him off? Was it the eyes? Or just her? 

In the new solitude of her booth and the fresh wave of alcohol in her system, she could entertain the idea that her visitor wasn’t human. That he wanted to take something she wouldn’t be able to give back, something you can’t replace or buy back with enough paychecks. 

A familiar face returned. Drunk and goofy, but not for long. Keith stopped before he let himself sit back down and pointed to the half empty pint glass. “I don’t think I ordered that.” 

“No, you didn’t.” 

“Did something happen? Did some creep stop by?”

“Yes. And yes.” 

Rage bloomed across Keith’s face-

“He’s gone already. Don’t worry about it.” 

“Rach-”

“I know. I-I’m sorry.” 

Keith kneeled down to Rachel’s level. He didn’t slur. The flush was still there, but from the looks of it he’d lost a good deal of color in his face as well. There were better ways to sober someone up, but there was a comfort in knowing he cared so much, even after all this time. “You wanna get outta here?”

Rachel nodded, blinking quickly, lips curled in. 

“Ok. We can do that. I’ll stay here and flag down the waitress and pay the tab. The station for the redline is, like, right there.” He gestured a flat hand in the direction of the exit. “That sound alri- Oh, shit. Uh, excuse me!” Keith reached in the opposite direction and waived down an unfamiliar staff member before fumbling his way through a request for their waitress and their bill. Somehow they took too much time and not enough time to have it all wrapped up and to be on their way. 

They had already been on the train for several minutes before Rachel realized she was still holding onto the talisman. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a comment about what you liked and what I could do better!


End file.
